


A Chasm in Perspective

by AuroraNova



Series: Private Universe [2]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-01 10:52:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16763713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraNova/pseuds/AuroraNova
Summary: Contrary to popular belief, Garak does have a conscience, and he won't have the ruination of Cardassia on it. Meanwhile, Julian's very human conscience makes it hard to accept sharing a private universe with a man so blasé about considering Julian's death at his hands an acceptable sacrifice. And then there's the attempted genocide.No one ever said being bound to an alien by a mystery of physics would be easy.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The muse wants to jump ahead in this series, but I think Garak's actions in "Broken Link" need to be explored, so here we go.

Six months’ confinement was evidently a popular punishment in the Federation, considered suitable for crimes ranging from smuggling for terrorist organizations to attempted genocide. It spoke to a certain lack of imagination.

Technically, Garak received no punishment for his attempted genocide. Through some legal quirk he suspected lawmakers were working to remedy as he ruminated, it appeared not one person in the entire United Federation of Planets had standing to file that charge when the race in question was neither Federation nor under its protection. This was a very strange legal system. Such a minor detail wouldn’t have stopped anyone on Cardassia.

Now, sabotaging a Starfleet ship and assaulting a Starfleet officer were other matters entirely. So there Garak sat, in a holding cell not terribly far from Sisko's love interest, ruing his failure and knowing it had condemned his people to terrible suffering, perhaps utter ruin. The Changeling leader had told him so herself.

_“Cardassia is dead. Your people were doomed the moment they attacked us.”_

Garak thought she might prove to be right, and the idea kept him up at night. And worried him through the day, too, seeing how he had very little to distract him from his own musings. Unlike the popular Captain Yates, in the first week of his confinement he had no visitors aside, interestingly enough, from the very man whose species he’d tried to eradicate.

Of course, Odo wasn’t very kindly inclined towards his own species for entirely different reasons. He made a few minutes each day beyond the scope of his duties to converse with Garak about humanoid matters ranging from food to fashion, which Garak much appreciated.

Otherwise, he had nothing but his Federation padd. It offered him access to a broad library in print, audio, and video, none of which was sufficient to occupy his mind. He took some pleasure in how heavily secured the device was, as evidently someone had deemed him enough of a threat to hack into the station’s computer via the padd.

Not that there was any point in such an attempt. Even without access to his own computer and its illicit programs, he might eventually breach the padd’s security protocols (he certainly had the time), but where would he go?

If only it hadn’t been Worf. Garak could’ve subdued any other member of the crew, though if rumors of her Klingon martial arts skills were well-founded, Dax would’ve been a challenge. Worf possessed the fighting prowess and strength for which his people were known along with intelligence for which they were decidedly not, making him a formidable opponent indeed.

In his Order days, Garak had been known for his dislike of missions which did not afford ample time for planning. He’d noticed early in his career that spontaneity correlated very highly with error. This disastrous attempt to save the quadrant fell squarely in that category. There hadn’t been half enough time to work out the details, which would, ideally, have included measures to neutralize Worf. A virus which only afflicted Klingons would’ve served nicely, or a neurotoxin (the Order provided agents with immunity to several), or even something as inelegant as electrocution.

He’d felt bound to make the attempt regardless. Whatever horrors befell Cardassia in the near future, Garak’s conscience was clean in the knowledge that he had tried to prevent them.

Visiting hour opened. Two of Yates’s crew were there to regale her with the latest interstellar shipping news, while for the eighth day in a row, nobody arrived to see Garak.

Dr. Bashir was growing conspicuous in his absence.

Humans, being on the whole a very sentimental species, were prone to taking their own deaths personally. Bashir had no doubt interpreted Garak’s attempt as an affront to himself when it was nothing of the sort. It would have been unfortunate that the doctor died – more regrettable to Garak than any of the other deaths, if he was dealing in his own truths – but ultimately irrelevant. The sacrifice would’ve saved the Federation as well as Cardassia, so Garak considered it a very small price to pay, in the end, even from a human perspective. What were a handful of lives compared to billions?

Bashir would visit eventually. He would feel entitled to answers, even though he had to know they wouldn’t truly satisfy him. He would come in full of Federation righteousness and human outrage, that much was certain. The question was, would he leave in much the same state, or would he be agreeable to continuing their association?

Garak didn’t know, and he wasn’t prone to foolish hope.

He was what he was, an agent of the state who served his people. Julian Bashir did not change that, the _malon anbar_ did not change it, exile did not change it. Death alone would, and if Bashir couldn’t accept this, well, Garak’s life would be even duller, but at least he could rest assured in the knowledge that, when it mattered most, the events of his recent life hadn’t thoroughly alienated him from himself after all.


	2. Nothing Personal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was enamored with the idea of writing this entire series from Garak's perspective, but decided we really need to know what Julian is thinking sometimes. So alternating POVs it is.

To his credit, Miles didn’t say, “I told you so.”

He quite obviously thought it, yes, but they were starting week two of Julian’s foul mood and he still managed to keep the words unspoken. Julian was rather touched at the display of restraint.

The first night after they returned from the Gamma Quadrant, Miles showed up with whisky and, when Julian proved disinclined to talk about Garak, launched into a tipsy spiel on how weird it was that Kira was carrying his and Keiko’s baby. The second night, he made no comment when Julian threw darts with more force than usual, and the fifth, he offered to make the Nazi planes in the Battle of Britain look like miniature Cardassian warships. (Julian was tempted, but decided he’d rather not have anything Cardassian intrude on their holosuite time.)

Evidently Miles had endured enough, because he looked up from the lunch he’d been wordlessly inhaling and said, “Maybe you should go yell at him.”

Julian stirred his lamb stew in lieu of eating it. “He’d just sit there calmly and I’d get even angrier in response.”

“Well, you should do something. This isn’t like you, Julian. I can’t believe I’m saying it, but you’re too quiet. It’s unnerving.”

“I can tell you about my latest research into a uniquely Bajoran form of malnutrition-induced retinal weakness which remains after nutritional deficiencies have been remedied.”

At least his professional life was still satisfactory. In fact, he’d found himself with a surplus of free time in the past week, so the retina project was moving quickly. Simulations already showed his modulated electron pulse treatment slowing decline by a full thirty percent, and he thought if he could figure out why women weren’t affected, he’d be able to cure the condition altogether.

“Please don’t,” said Miles. “Look, the station is full of people, most of whom like sex.”

“I know. I administer the contraceptives.”

“And some of whom have to like arguing about books over lunch.” Miles’s face conveyed his puzzlement over the allure. Or maybe the pickle was too sour.

“A smaller percentage, I’m sure,” Julian said. “And while I appreciate that there are other fish in the sea, it’s not a great deal of comfort at the moment.”

Miles sighed. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

Julian considered telling Miles about the _malon anbar_. Not in the Replimat, of course, but later, in private. Admittedly, doing so without notifying Garak beforehand would be a breach of Cardassian etiquette, but then again, attempting to destroy the planet one’s lover stood on was an even more egregious offense to humans.

What stopped him was a strong desire not to give Miles further cause to question his judgement. Their private universe, mysterious though it remained, implied a greater level of attachment than mere sex, and even if said attachment could be assumed to be somewhat mutual, it still meant Julian had gotten himself even further over his head than Miles already believed with a man who tried to commit genocide and kill him in the process.

Or, as Miles had said months ago, “Wait a minute, you’re telling me you’re only attracted to men occasionally and you picked _Garak?_ ”

Julian already felt stupid enough. He didn’t particularly want to make himself look any worse.

* * *

Jadzia finally dropped the subtlety and cornered him in his office. She’d spent the previous week engaged in progressively more blatant attempts to offer a sympathetic ear, and Julian really hoped she wasn’t going to offer him sage advice from lifetimes past. On the rare occasions she did, he always felt like a naughty schoolboy, or worse, one who couldn’t keep up with the simplest of tasks despite his best efforts.

“Have you ever heard of cliff-soaring?” she asked.

“No.”

“It’s a popular pastime in my home province. In the spring when the wind conditions are just right, you can jump off the cliffs into the updrafts. The best cliff-soarers can stay in the air for hours.”

Julian recalled her comment when they went to Trill during Joran’s reemergence. “Are these the ice cliffs?”

“No, those are further south, where the cold makes air currents much trickier.”

Somehow, it had never occurred to Julian to ask where on Trill Jadzia was from. The southern hemisphere, evidently.

“I haven’t been in, oh, twelve years,” she continued, so she was likely talking about herself, not any of her previous lives. It got a bit confusing sometimes. “When I saw this new holoprogram, I had to try it, and it’s almost as good as the real thing. I have a reservation at Quark’s in half an hour. Do you want to join me?”

Jadzia wasn’t in the habit of inviting him to share her holosuite time. That role was generally reserved for Kira and, more recently, Worf, though she’d been known to drag the captain along on occasion when she thought he was working himself too hard. (Rumor held Sisko had once allowed himself to be talked into a jousting tournament in Camelot, and Julian would’ve liked to have witnessed that.)

It was a kind offer, and he thought the challenge of mastering what she described would be a good distraction. “If I fail miserably, am I going to end up in the ocean?”

“Yes.”

“Then what’s not to like?”

Thirty-three minutes later, he stood on a cliff wearing a holographic costume comprised of a warm suit and large wings and, if he concentrated very hard, not thinking about a certain Cardassian at all.

“We don’t have time to study the wind charts,” said Jadzia apologetically. “They change with each use of the program for verisimilitude.”

That suited Julian. He didn’t have to feign ignorance nor try to shut off part of his brain, which never worked terribly well. “That’s alright. You can’t get hypothermia in a holographic ocean.”

She gestured to the bottom of the cliff, off to their right. “That’s what the fires are for.” Holding out her arms, she fluttered her wings, adjusted a strap, and nodded in satisfaction. “The key is to keep your arms steady. Don’t try to flap the wings. You’re an eagle, not a songbird.”

“Got it.”

“Here’s the emergency parachute if you need to slow your descent.” She called his attention to the tab. “I think we can skip the rest of the safety lesson.”

“That is an advantage of holosuites.” Though Miles still managed to dislocate his shoulder on a regular basis. Holo-safeties couldn’t stop a person from injuring themselves through overexertion.

“So is the lack of lines,” said Jadzia. “We want to get a good running start here, and the wind should do the rest.”

“Should?”

But Jadzia was already racing towards the cliff, arms tight against her side. As soon as the rock ended, she threw out her arms and the wings took over, moving her out past the cliff while she whooped.

“Come on, Julian!”

He started to sprint and hoped he didn’t make a complete fool out of himself. Which he promptly did, because instead of soaring in the air, he plummeted towards the waves below. After much wobbling, he managed to right himself, but he was still almost a dozen meters below Jadzia.

“You put your wings out too early,” she yelled.

“I’ve just realized something.”

“What?”

“I didn’t ask how we get down.”

Jadzia laughed.

As it turned out, they were supposed to get down by waiting until they meandered over a crosscurrent, which would take them over the cliff again and allow them to slowly descend to the ground. Julian ended up in the ocean first, but he did eventually manage to land on solid ground. On his knees and none too gently, which was where those safeties came in handy.

It was a real challenge, and he didn’t think about Garak again until they were leaving Quark’s. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “That was just what I needed.”

Jadzia gave him her knowing smile. She was a remarkable woman, and Julian was grateful his infatuation of their first years on DS9 hadn’t ruined any chance at friendship, as it undoubtedly would have with a lesser person. He was even glad they’d never ended up in bed together, because his track record with romance was atrocious and her friendship was far more precious than any fleeting sexual encounter could ever have been. And this from a man who still had fond memories of some especially good fleeting sexual encounters.

“You weren’t bad for a beginner,” she said.

“Another benefit to the holosuite is the lack of complete strangers to witness my embarrassment.”

“It’s not like that on Trill. There’s a real sense of comradery among cliff-soarers.”

All the same, Julian would prefer to practice more in the holosuite before he went to the real cliffs. He bid Jadzia a good evening, wished her luck at tongo, and went to his own quarters feeling better than he had in days.

The improved mood lasted until he went to bed, when he found himself staring at the ceiling instead of sleeping. He’d been doing that entirely too much lately. By now he had the entire ceiling mapped in great detail, and a mild curiosity as to how the jagged scratch had come into being.

Wondering about the scratch was the last straw. He was going to have it out with Garak and move on with his life one way or another, Julian decided, because the alternative was rapidly descending into the pathetic. In fact, he’d have marched to the holding cells at that moment if it hadn’t been past visiting hours.

Decision made, it only took him another forty minutes to fall asleep. Having his lover attempt to destroy an entire species, and kill him in the process, really did a number on a man’s ability to sleep.

* * *

Julian spent the first two hours of his shift in his office with no emergencies or appointments to distract him. Not that he wished a critical situation on anyone, exactly, but it would have been easier for him if he had something on which to focus. No patients came looking for care, and his retina research was in a rather tedious phase of setting up simulations, so his mind wandered.

Part of the problem was that he didn’t know what outcome he wanted from his conversation with Garak. Or rather, what outcome he wanted which he could reasonably expect to happen, because he didn’t think a sincere outpouring of regret would be forthcoming. Did he want to remain… whatever exactly he was… with Garak? He wasn’t sure he could. Did he want to leave with harsh words and never speak again? That prospect failed to satisfy him completely.

How was he supposed to share a universe with a man capable of what Garak attempted to do? A man who coolly assessed Julian’s life as a more than fair trade, who had no moral qualms about genocide, was not the kind of person to whom Julian wanted to be tied.

No one ever said being bound to an alien by a mystery of physics would be easy, but this was something else altogether.

He waited seven minutes after visiting hours started before he left the infirmary. It wouldn’t do to appear overeager.

“I imagine you’re here to see Garak,” said Odo.

“Yes.”

“You need to sign the visitor log.”

Julian did so, and then proceeded where Odo indicated, to holding cell 3. He passed Kasidy Yates and realized that, as Captain Sisko’s lover was also currently imprisoned, at least he was in good company. Maybe the commonality had forestalled the lecture he’d half expected on why he shouldn’t continue to associate with Garak. He preferred that explanation to the alternative, which was Sisko feeling sorry for him.

He decided a cutting remark suited his general mood towards Garak. “This wasn’t a _ket forunt edre_ situation, I see.” After all, it hadn’t required death to stop Garak from achieving his goal.

Garak looked up from his padd, nonplussed. “Only because of Starfleet morality and your peculiar Federation jurisprudence.”

“I seem to recall you suggesting that perhaps, when someone fails, part of them may in fact want to.”

Too much salt in the wound? In other circumstances, Julian would’ve thought so, but considering what Garak tried, he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

“If you’ve only come to insult me, Doctor, I’ll tell Odo I wish to decline your company.”

They both knew that was a lie. Garak was bored out of his mind and didn’t have anyone else stopping by. Julian had checked his visitor log while signing in and it was completely empty, so the man wasn’t about to refuse even the most antagonistic of company.

“You tried to destroy the planet I was standing on!”

“It wasn’t personal,” said Garak, just as Julian had known he would.

He didn’t sit, because he still hadn’t decided if he’d be staying long enough to bother. “We humans have a habit of taking it personally when someone tries to kill us.”

“I didn’t try to kill you.”

“Did you think I would survive your turning the Founders’ homeworld into so many chunks of rock?”

“Of course not, but your death as an unfortunately necessary sacrifice is not the same as killing you. The latter would be personal. I wanted to save Cardassia, and indeed the entire Alpha Quadrant, including the Federation.”

“It’s nice to know I merit the adverb ‘unfortunately.’ It really makes me feel so much better.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Doctor.”

“I’d like to say genocide doesn’t become you, but recent events prove otherwise.”

Garak sighed. “Why must everyone focus on that?”

“Because we take an extremely dim view of it.”

“So you would prefer war on a scale the quadrant may never have seen, war which will cost millions if not billions of lives and could destroy the Federation entirely? Have you no sense of societal preservation that you don’t want to see Earth become the Dominion’s Alpha Quadrant headquarters?”

“You don’t know that will happen,” said Julian, though what Garak suggested made him queasy.

“You don’t know that it won’t. We could have, but Commander Worf is terribly disappointing. I suspect he may be looking forward to proving himself in future battles.”

“Worf has his honor, which in many ways is another word for a conscience. You might try it sometime.”

Garak’s eyeridges tightened in disapproval. “Contrary to popular belief, I do have a conscience, and it revolves around the needs of Cardassia. Just because it doesn’t align perfectly with yours, you seem to find it easy to dismiss. You really ought to examine this human-centric view of yours.”

Damn it. Julian hated when Garak was right about his human-centric views. However strenuously he disagreed with Garak’s choices, and he definitely did, it smacked of specism to dismiss Garak’s conscience for failing to line up with a human equivalent. That was Xenorelations 101: don’t judge other species based on your own standards.

Besides, history was littered with humans who lacked any conscience whatsoever, so that wouldn’t have been a purely Cardassian problem even if it were true. It did still leave the issue of how Julian could have any kind of relationship with this vast difference between what they considered acceptable.

Garak, satisfied that his remark had landed, continued, “I have a conscience and I wasn’t about to have the ruination of Cardassia on it. We all have to live with ourselves, Doctor, and I was unwilling to spend the rest of my days, however few they might be if the Dominion has its way, knowing I had a chance to save my people and I did nothing.”

“You were perfectly willing to live with my death, and the death of an entire race,” he said.

“Not _my_ race. And I must to point out that I would have died as well. I wasn’t offering you as a… what is the phrase, a baby animal of some kind, to take my place?”

He suspected Garak knew the word and was only pretending otherwise, as he sometimes did for effect. (He wasn’t the only one, either.) “Lamb. Sacrificial lamb.”

“I still don’t understand how a juvenile quadruped is supposed to replace an adult human, but never mind that. I was perfectly willing to die for the greater good myself, as I surely would have.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Does it?”

“Not particularly.”

“It should,” said Garak.

“You had a choice in the matter.”

“That’s a senseless argument and you know it. Starfleet orders people to their deaths all the time.”

Julian was well aware, and he accepted that risk when he joined, but it wasn’t the same at all. “You aren’t in Starfleet.”

“No, and I’m glad of it. Your uniforms wouldn’t flatter me at all.”

The man was insufferable sometimes. Julian glared.

Garak put on his most inscrutable blank face. “I really don’t know what you want me to say.”

“What I want you to say and what there’s a remote chance you’d mean are two entirely different things.”

“Undoubtedly.”

Julian half-sighed, half-huffed and leaned against the wall. “I don’t know either. I haven’t the faintest clue where to go from here or how we might get there.”

“I am what I am, Doctor.”

“Not a simple tailor, that’s for certain.”

Garak did him the great courtesy of skipping the all-too-obvious lie about his current profession. “An agent of the good of Cardassia,” he said instead.

Julian circled back to an earlier remark. “Did you truly think it was unfortunate that I’d die?”

“Yes,” said Garak, and it was possible he was even being truthful. “I have no desire to see you dead, not least as a result of my own actions. It was necessary, and I daresay both our people will come to deeply regret Worf stopping me, but I took no pleasure in the knowledge that you’d die.”

“You know, I think I might just believe that.” Always a risky response, with Garak, and therefore Julian still had some doubt. “You really thought it was the right thing to do?”

“The only thing to do,” corrected Garak. “Sooner or later the quadrant will wish I’d succeeded, and what would the sacrifice of a few lives and your self-important morals mean then, when people are dying by the hundreds of thousands?”

Julian had no good answer to that. He hated what Garak had done, both for his own death and the horrific act of deciding an entire race needed to die. And yet, part of him wondered: what if Garak was right about an upcoming war?

“You think the Founders are so irredeemable?”

“That is entirely irrelevant,” said Garak. “I am not concerned with these academic considerations of inherent merit or the possibility of redemption. What matters to me is keeping them from destroying us all, and if Starfleet had any sense whatsoever, they’d have seized upon the same chance I did. It will never come again.”

He’d gotten his answers from this conversation, if no real satisfaction. Garak would never regret what he’d done, because he was convinced it was in Cardassia’s best interest, and it was a perfectly pragmatic calculation combined with sacrifice for the good of the state – utterly Cardassian in every way.

The problem was, Julian wasn’t Cardassian, and he didn’t know how he could ever look at Garak again without wondering when his life would once again be an acceptable sacrifice.

God, he was sick of Cardassian sacrifice.

At least they had their _malon anbar_ firmly under control now. It wouldn’t have done at all to be popping in and out of the universe while having this conversation. They really had tamed it like a pet, as Iloja said, and now it was second nature to keep their private universe firmly at bay until they wished otherwise.

If he could manage to adapt to that Cardassian peculiarity, there might yet be hope for another. Julian let his guard drop just for a moment, long enough that Garak’s shoulders tensed as he recognized the warping of reality. “I reserve the right to tell Miles,” he said.

Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t, but Garak couldn’t say he hadn’t followed Cardassian protocol for the sharing of secrets.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” said Garak. “Is this your attempt at revenge?”

“It speaks volumes about your outlook on life that you automatically think it is.”

“I notice you didn’t answer the question.”

“If I wanted revenge, I wouldn’t have notified you.”

“Ah, but this way you can claim to have fulfilled the obligation.”

Julian realized Garak was genuinely curious, and decided not to satisfy on this particular count. “As Preloc was fond of writing, anyone with half a brain can come up with an excuse to get out of an obligation.” As long as it wasn’t to the state, of course.

“Those lines were always from the perspective of the fools,” said Garak.

“Were they? It’s often hard to keep track of who’s supposed to be the fool.”

“It most certainly is not.”

Julian didn’t actually feel like getting into literature, now that they began to go down the familiar road. It would be too normal at the moment, so he decided to get back to the infirmary and those simulations he was feeding the computer. “I’ll be back in a few days. Routine medical checks for all long-term detainees.”

“You might read about the role of the fool in the meantime,” said Garak.

He knew perfectly well the role of the fool in Cardassian literature. Besides, he thought he might be able to focus on his research now.


	3. Abnormal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on temperature: I'm presuming Starfleet uses Celsius. For my fellow Americans, that makes an increase of 4.5 degrees more significant than it sounds.

Bashir had grown better at mystery, which Garak flattered himself to believe he might take some small credit for modeling. The doctor had matured into a most intriguing individual. Not that he hadn’t been interesting company in the early days of their acquaintance, but now he had a certain becoming depth to his character. 

Admittedly, this new proclivity to the mysterious left Garak uncertain where he stood with the doctor, but he didn’t mind that. It gave him something to break up the interminable tedium of his confinement. He replayed their conversation in his mind, looking for the slightest clue to Bashir’s mindset, and eventually admitted to himself that he lacked sufficient information.

He did enjoy a puzzle.

Four days later, the doctor returned with a medical kit. Official business, then. Garak was happy for any break in his routine. He’d grown so bored he started to consider writing his own novel just to while away the hours, but couldn’t decide on a plotline that lacked any semblance of relation to his own life. (The Federation was likely monitoring his padd, if the organization wasn’t completely overrun with imbeciles. Odo, at least, could be relied upon for some sense, and Garak wasn’t about to write anything personal for this reason.)

One of Odo’s deputies lowered the forcefield, giving Garak the usual Bajoran sneer of hatred. He imagined it pleased the woman greatly to see a Cardassian in a holding cell; any Cardassian would probably have done.

The doctor immediately set to work with his tricorder. “Any health complaints?”

He was cold, but not about to give the deputy the satisfaction of admitting it. “Not at all. In fact, I suspect the diet regimen will prove advantageous in my quest to trim down.”

“Slightly elevated cortisol,” said Bashir. “Not altogether surprising, and not alarmingly high, but I’ll want to keep an eye on that.”

Garak wouldn’t be averse to more medical visits. This one was proving the highlight of his day by sheer force of variety, an admittedly easy achievement in his current circumstance.

“You are exercising, I hope.”

“Yes,” said Garak. He waited until the lights went off for the night, because he didn’t care to make a spectacle of his routine, but it wouldn’t do to grow any more out of practice than he absolutely had to. In the dark, he maintained his calisthenics and fought imagined attackers.

Bashir turned to the deputy. “The temperature in this cell needs to be raised by four and a half degrees.”

“We don’t afford prisoners luxuries,” she said.

Bashir did not suffer anyone to doubt his authority in medical matters. “You afford them basic living conditions necessary for their species, and you follow my medical requirements to the letter. I’ll log this with Odo and I expect it done immediately.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Four and a half degrees, as the Federation measured temperature, would be much more pleasant. Not truly warm, perhaps, but it was the temperature he kept his shop (any warmer would’ve led to customer complaints) and would take the edge off his chill.

“And increase humidity by ten percent,” added Bashir. That would be even better.

The deputy glowered but nodded. Garak thought his ridges might stop itching after a day or two of improved humidity, which would be a welcome change indeed. He could have asked Odo, but then the deputies would have known about the weakness, and that was somehow worse than being cold. The pride one clung to when reduced to confinement was remarkable.

It could have been worse. The forcefield prevented him from succumbing to claustrophobia, and Odo had tucked him away in the corner where nobody was looking at him constantly. Very civilized about their imprisonment policies, the Bajorans and Federation.

This satisfied Bashir, who put away his tricorder. “Normally I’d ask how you’re sleeping, but I don’t expect there’s any point when you won’t tell me the truth.”

“One’s sleep habits are a private matter,” replied Garak.

“With you, everything is a private matter,” said the doctor, more or less accurately. “You’re in as good health as can be expected for a man who didn’t mention his necessary environmental settings to Odo.”

On that front, Garak was both grateful Bashir had taken measures to alleviate his suffering and irked that the man had called attention to a weakness. “Have you researched the role of the fool in Cardassian literature?” he asked, hoping he might gain some new insight as to the doctor’s mindset.

“I haven’t had time.”

Still taking the idea of his death at Garak’s hands personally, then, and probably clutching to his Federation ideals, even if it led to the enslavement of the entire quadrant. Garak was not against ideals per se – he thought they were tolerable if one had the luxury to indulge – but he couldn’t condone allowing them to supersede practicality.

Bashir did not say when he would be back. Yes, the good doctor’s conscience was still troubled, and that was a problem he would have to sort out on his own. Garak’s was clear. Oh, he had to deal with the bitterness of defeat, but his experience in that regard was not inconsiderable, and he could fairly say he’d tried his utmost to save the quadrant.

He would have liked an invigorating debate, all the same.

* * *

Entering the third week of his confinement, Garak concluded that conversational acuity was more relative than he’d previously realized. Take Odo, for instance. The constable had his strengths to be sure, but witty repartee had never been among them. It still wasn’t, of course, but Garak had a new appreciation for the fact that Odo spoke at all, because it gave him something to do for a few minutes.

For all the Federation talked about avoiding cruel and unusual punishments, they failed to consider how heinous unceasing boredom could be. He wondered if humans were driven to the same lengths of torment he was, and decided it probably depended entirely on the human in question.

He was more gratified than he would ever admit to see Bashir return, without his medical instruments this time. “Hello, Doctor. Have you had time to study the role of the fool yet?”

“No,” said Bashir. That was a lie of one kind or another. He must have had the time by now, but had chosen not to spend it thus. “Rumor has it we’ll be getting new uniforms soon.”

Was he withholding literary debates as a means of punishment? That would be petty. If he was so angry, why bother visiting at all? Unless he viewed doing so as one of those strange human obligations… they were prone to perplexing and contradictory mores.

This bore further consideration. Garak didn’t want to lose whatever fleeting distraction the doctor was willing to provide, so he said, “If the rumor is true, I hope the designer is more skilled than whoever created your current uniform.”

“It may not be the height of fashion…”

“I assure you it is not.”

“…but it’s perfectly comfortable and holds up to a variety of adverse conditions. Dress uniforms are for looking good, regular uniforms are meant to be serviceable.”

Starfleet dress uniforms were an improvement to be sure, though that wasn’t saying much. It could have been worse for Bashir, anyway; the hideous yellow worn by the operations and engineering branches would’ve looked dreadful with his skin tone.

“I’m sure Starfleet could find someone on Earth with an eye for aesthetics in addition to functionality,” he said. “The two need not be mutually exclusive.”

“There’s an ancient saying on Earth: you can’t serve two masters.”

Garak suspected Bashir had more than uniforms in mind. “You can if you have good time management skills.”

“Not equally.”

“Ah, but you didn’t specify that at first.”

“It’s implied.”

“I beg to differ.”

“I think,” said Bashir, slowly and deliberately, “in your own way, you’ve been honest all along about the master you serve.”

Of course the truth had been there among the lies, scattered in the books and characters for which he professed admiration, in an offhand remark made casually between bites of lunch, and more often in subtext. Garak didn’t hand out his truths to just anyone, but he’d allowed hints to surface. Enough that a worthy person could piece them together and understand one or two of the facets which made up Elim Garak.

It didn’t surprise him that Julian Bashir proved himself worthy in this way. (Not anymore. It would have, years ago.) It did grieve him to know the doctor might still chose to discontinue their association – not to the point of regretting what he’d done, because he would never regret trying to save Cardassia, but enough that he thought it would be a cruel twist even by the standards of his own harsh life.

“I do not care for the term master, so let us speak of purposes. If, as you say, one cannot serve multiple purposes equally, it’s best to choose carefully, is it not?”

“I’d say so,” agreed Bashir.

“And what have you selected? Starfleet offers so many purposes from which to choose.”

The doctor considered for a moment. Good. That meant he was still open to sharing some level of intimacy with Garak.

“To heal,” he said.

Well, there was part of the problem. His most valued goal was to save lives, and Garak had attempted to end a great many lives (including, of course, Bashir’s own). All things considered, it would have been easier if he’d named adventure or the pursuit of knowledge.

“I don’t suppose I can convince you to see my actions as a galactic triage.”

“No.”

A pity, because the more Garak thought about it, the more he liked the metaphor.

“As you said, you are what you are,” continued Bashir. “There’s no sense in expecting you to be anything else.”

“Such rarely ends well.”

“That goes both ways, you know.”

“I am quite aware.” He would never expect the doctor to approve of his actions.

“We have a phrase, ‘playing God.’ What you did, a preemptive strike to…”

“ _Preemptive_?” Had the man paid no attention to recent events whatsoever? “Doctor, the Founders have infiltrated Earth and the Tal Shiar, which I assure you is not an easy feat. They are undoubtedly in many other positions throughout the quadrant, from Cardassia to the Klingon Empire and even Starfleet. They have demonstrated intent to do grave harm to us all, they have killed, and they will not stop until we force them to. You can call my effort many things, but ‘preemptive’ is not one of them, because I did not start this struggle. The Dominion did.”

“Isn’t that what everyone says about wars? It’s always the other side’s fault, we were only defending ourselves, don’t lay the blame at our feet, this was unavoidable because they are monstrous conquerors.”

“War _is_ unavoidable at times, despite what your human idealism would like to believe.”

“I know that,” said Bashir.

“Of course, if I’d had my way, we’d have avoided this particular war.”

“So you’ve said.”

Garak really did not know what the doctor hoped to get out of this conversation, which began to feel as though they were treading the same ground over again, and wasn’t it peculiar that a man who disliked repetitive epics insisted on repetition?

“Doctor -”

“Don’t, Garak. Don’t talk about this like it’s a book with no immediate consequences over lunch at the Replimat. We are so far removed from normal I can’t even begin to figure it out, and you may be perfectly fine with what you did, but I’m not, and I’m just muddling through as best I can.”

Garak rapidly assessed what he’d just learned. Literature was too ‘normal’ to discuss at the moment, as though it suggested Bashir had accepted what he had not. Still, the doctor didn’t intend to discard their relationship wholesale, or he wouldn’t bother to ‘muddle through.’ He was presumably conflicted. The exact nature of the turmoil, Garak couldn’t say with any certainty. It was too human for his comprehension.

He didn’t know how to respond to the outburst, and Garak hated not knowing what to say in a given situation. Perhaps Bashir realized, because he seemed pleased when Garak paused too long.

“Very well, Doctor. If our current surroundings were not already sufficient to indicate a lack of normality, I will not insist upon a discussion of literature.” Beneath it, the words he didn’t say lay easily revealed: _I would greatly appreciate your company nevertheless_.

Bashir relaxed fractionally, so the remark served. “I don’t imagine you’ve heard about Quark’s latest business venture.”

“I have not,” said Garak. It wasn’t his first choice for conversation topic (nor even in the top eight), but he counted it as vastly preferable to staring at the walls of his holding cell.

* * *

When Tora Ziyal visited (not doubt to Major Kira’s consternation), Garak was obliged to explain the reasons for his actions once more, and he grew weary of doing so. He resolved that he would not indulge anyone else in this matter.

Ziyal – he thought of her by first name, as the child she was even if she failed to fully realize this fact – took the whole episode as a lesson in Cardassian culture, as she ought. She was a thoughtful, generous girl. Garak could only presume these traits came from her maternal line.

Odo, having no existing immunities of which to speak, unsurprisingly caught the first virus to hit the station since he was made humanoid, and hadn’t the slightest clue how to handle being sick. It was a particularly nasty strain of Bajoran ailment which had much of the station coughing themselves into misery.

Garak was not afflicted, at least not with the virus. He was afflicted with increased boredom when Odo was sick in his quarters and Bashir failed to visit, though he supposed the doctor was preoccupied with his duties.

After four days (it ought to have been five, in Garak’s admittedly unprofessional opinion, but Odo had resisted admitting his illness in the onset), the constable returned with a remnant cough, looking worse for the experience and disgusted with his new weakness. That last Garak understood, as much as anyone could.

“Dreadful, isn’t it?” he said. “How your own body betrays you.”

“Dr. Bashir says the spread of common viruses can never be completely eliminated.” Odo appeared to think Starfleet Medical and the Bajoran Health Ministry should immediately commence the project on Deep Space Nine, all the same.

“They’ve been considerably reduced in the modern era, I’m told.”

Odo was not impressed by this medical progress. He coughed again. “He also said I’m no longer contagious.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Not all viruses crossed species, but very many of them did, and illness would not improve Garak’s confinement. “This is one of the prices we pay for the pleasures of the flesh, I’m afraid.”

“It’s a steep price,” said Odo, and Garak wasn’t sure if he meant illness or being turned humanoid. This was unusual for the constable, so much so that Garak might have been reading too deeply into the remark.

“I’m sure you’ve been inundated with traditional remedies.”

“Kira suggested raallweed tea,” said Odo by way of agreement.

“I’ve never tried it.” In fact, he’d never even heard of it.

“There’s a reason nobody outside Dahkur Province drinks it.”

“Hideous taste?” guessed Garak.

Odo nodded. “I don’t recommend it.”

“I appreciate the warning.” Not that it mattered, really, taste being as subjective as it was, and Garak lacked any desire to try Bajoran folk remedies in the first place. He was content with a warm spiced rokassa juice when he was ill.

Odo continued on his way, no doubt to investigate whatever schemes the criminal element might have dreamt up to take advantage of his absence. Garak returned to the novella he was outlining, having at last settled on a premise that was not personally revealing. It was historical, set in the very early days of Cardassian space exploration, and centered around the conflict between tradition and progress.

There would, of course, be sensible sacrifice on his protagonists’ part. He just needed to work out the precise form it would take.

By evening, he was on his sixth attempt at an outline. This business of creative writing was harder than he’d anticipated. Crafting individual sentences and even scenes was not difficult for a man of Garak’s imagination, but making a coherent whole took more consideration. Well, he was only undertaking the project to keep himself occupied. No one was likely to read it (unless Odo thought it a security risk, but the constable wasn’t known for his interest in fiction).

Bashir approached as Garak was considering whether his female protagonist should be killed or maimed. “Hello, Doctor,” he said.

“Good evening.” Bashir yawned. “We’ve had a terrible cold going around that’s caused moderately severe injuries from coughing.”

Garak had never heard of such a thing. Were other species truly that fragile, or was it possible for Cardassians as well, he wondered. “Surely you have suppressants.”

“People have to come to us first, and the suppressants sometimes wear off in the middle of the night. It’s been non-stop in the infirmary, and I was sick myself for two days.”

“Only two?”

“It’s not as bad for humans.”

“How fortunate.”

“We’ve also gotten more casualties in from a skirmish with the Klingons.”

“You do look overworked,” said Garak. In fact, he looked utterly exhausted. And yet he’d still made time for a visit. Perhaps their relationship was salvageable.

“If I’m lucky, I might get nine full hours of sleep tonight.”

“Don’t let me keep you.”

He understood that Bashir hadn’t shunned him altogether. Or, to use that peculiar human phrase, ‘turned his back on him.’ A very odd meaning for the words. Cardassians used the phrase to indicate foolishly leaving oneself open to attack, which Garak found far more sensible. If you decided to cut ties with a person, it wasn’t wise to present them the easy target of an unguarded back.

“If you end up catching this virus, don’t suffer through. Have someone contact me before you crack a rib coughing.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing happening to a Cardassian.”

“It can,” said Bashir. “I should know.”

Garak didn’t bother asking for specifics, such as the identity of the Cardassian(s) in question, as the doctor would cite confidentiality and decline to answer. He liked to think Dukat had been visiting his daughter at precisely the right time to suffer in this ignominious way. The prospect amused him greatly.

Bashir yawned again.

“Perhaps you should prescribe yourself some sleep,” suggested Garak.

“I already have.” He looked at the cell and appeared to reach some kind of decision. “I’m still angry with you, you know.”

“I am aware.” Still angry, but also still visiting. It appeared Bashir was willing to accept Garak as he was, or at least attempt to do so.

“Good,” said Bashir. “I’ll see you once I stop having an infirmary full of patients. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Doctor.”

Garak watched Bashir walk away, then returned to his novella. He could have written a moving one about the consequences of failure, he thought, if he was at all inclined to put his own experiences into words. As he was not, he decided his female protagonist would live. Death was not such a difficult sacrifice, in the end, but to live with constant reminders of what one had given up for the greater good, that was something else entirely.

Exactly what Garak had given up, this time, remained to be seen.


	4. The Coming Storm

“You’re still visiting Garak,” said Miles as they disembarked from their planes.

Julian didn’t want to have this conversation, but it was inevitable. “Yes. I’m trying to understand.”

“What’s there to understand? Computer, end program.” The airfield disappeared from the holosuite at his command.

“Everything,” said Julian.

Miles shook his head. “He’s not a good person, you know.”

Julian bit back a remark on judging other species by human standards. “He was trying to prevent a war which could destroy the entire quadrant.”

“By committing genocide.”

“Yes.”

“In a way which would’ve also killed you.”

“I don’t like it, Miles.”

“Then why are you still talking to him? You’ll never understand him, not really.”

“I have to try.”

“I’m not sure I want to know why.”

“It’s not a conversation to have in Quark’s,” said Julian, uncertain if he wanted Miles to pursue the topic or not. On one hand, he’d decided not to worry about the _malon anbar_ making him look bad. On the other, Miles probably wouldn’t understand his reasoning anyway, would think that Garak’s actions placed him irrevocably beyond the pale, private universe notwithstanding, and Julian didn’t know how to explain himself without sounding like he meant to defend Garak.

And yet, Julian was tired of keeping the _malon anbar_ a secret from his best friend. He already had plenty of secrecy in his life, thank you very much.

“Your quarters?” asked Miles. “I’ve got to be home in half an hour, though. I promised Molly I’d read her two bedtime stories tonight unless I’m ordered otherwise by Captain Sisko himself.”

“Only the captain? Sounds like you’re leaving yourself open to charges of insubordination and dereliction of duty.”

“She’s very persuasive. The pleading eyes get me every time.”

They filled the walk with talk of no great consequence: Molly’s new interest in a series of Trill children’s books, courtesy of Jadzia; a possible strategy for their next round in the Battle of Britain; and how truly awful Quark’s latest drink special was. When they arrived in Julian’s quarters, Miles gave him an expectant look.

Julian was well aware that choosing the right words wasn’t always his forte. The more personal the conversation, the more he struggled, got nervous, and said a great number of wrong words to fill the silence. He’d been working very hard on this over the last two years, and the effort had begun to pay off. So now, instead of blurting out the first thing to enter his brain, he took a moment to compose a pair of coherent, reasonable sentences.

“Firstly, this isn’t something I’ve shared with anyone outside Jadzia and Captain Sisko, who had to know, so I’d appreciate you keeping it to yourself.”

Miles nodded.

“Garak and I, for reasons we still don’t understand, have found ourselves with a uniquely Cardassian bond called a _malon anbar_. It means ‘private universe,’ and that’s precisely what it is. When we’re together, we can move to another dimension, or, in Cardassian terms, our own pocket of the infinite multiverse. It gave us some trouble at first because we had to learn to control it, lest we spend the rest of our lives popping in and out of the known universe at random.”

Miles stared for a moment before saying, “Well, hell.”

“It’s considered subversive on Cardassia, so nobody talks about it. Hebitian legends, and the scraps of more current information we’ve been able to find, suggest it’s permanent.” He needed Miles to understand the gravity of it, even if he couldn’t explain how delightful it was to have the _malon anbar_ as a retreat.

“That’s what happened earlier in the year, when you stopped having lunch together. You didn’t want to disappear from the Replimat.”

“Yes. So you see, I’ve got to try to understand him, because we’re tied together by our private universe.”

And possibly because Julian suspected, if he was ever scorned for what he was and the ultimate lie surrounding his identity, Garak might be the only one in his life who still wanted to understand _him_.

“Your boyfriend…”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Sure seems that way,” said Miles, who liked everything to fit neatly into a recognizable category, “but suit yourself.”

“This isn’t a romance. If you’re looking for a noun, I suppose ‘lover’ will do. In Cardassi, the word is _anbaras_ , the person with whom I share a universe.”

“Because that’s not romantic or anything,” muttered Miles. “They have words for the thing nobody talks about?”

“It’s acceptable as a legend, where it can’t undermine the authority of the state.”

Miles wasn’t interested in Cardassian philosophy. “He tried to destroy the planet you were on and an entire race. How do you get over that?”

“I haven’t made it that far,” admitted Julian. “But I know I have to try. It’s not as though he attempted to kill me in a fit of rage. He’s convinced we’re facing war on a scale the quadrant has never seen, and this was how he planned to avert it.”

“He may be right about the war.” It pained Miles to say so, Julian knew. “But that’s not how you stop it.”

“It is to Cardassians, and it’s not fair to expect him to act like a human.”

Miles was silent for a minute, thinking over what he’d learned. His engineer’s mind naturally went to the science. “This private universe. How does it work?”

“We don’t know. It’s entirely possible that nobody knows. Jadzia and I have been trying to figure it out, but we don’t have much data. It’s controlled by willpower and mutual accord, and we can hear what’s going on in the primary universe while we’re there.”

“Huh. What’s it look like?”

“Twilight as far as the eye can see.”

“It’s not dangerous, is it?”

“Not inherently. Garak thinks there are people who’d be happy to spirit us off in order to study it.”

“That would explain why Cardassians don’t talk about these things,” said Miles.

“Then there’s the sensitive political nature.” Most of Julian’s medical staff was Bajoran, and that wasn’t even getting into Starfleet Command’s likely view of the matter.

“Seems like the kind of thing you should warn other people about, though. ‘Cardassians can get you mixed up in a new universe. Sleep with them at your own risk.’”

He made a good point, if not one Julian was in a situation to address. “I don’t think there are many other humans getting sexually involved with Cardassians at the moment.”

“No,” said Miles, and his expression made it plain he wished Julian had remained in, or would return to, that majority. “This isn’t forcing anything, is it? Could you still walk away, if you wanted to?”

“Yes, I could. The _malon anbar_ is only a factor when we’re in close proximity.”

“How close?”

“We haven’t been able to test it thoroughly, for obvious reasons, but it’s inaccessible if we’re each in our own quarters. Moreover, now that we’ve learned to control it, going there is a choice.”

“That’s something,” said Miles. “Just… be careful.” He added, mildly reproachful, “You could’ve told me this before, you know.”

“I had to wrap my own head around it first.”

He had been completely unprepared, after all, and while he’d put on a good front for Garak, Julian had been very concerned at first. Now, when they were used to it and had the whole situation under control, it didn’t seem so frightening. In fact, he’d grown to enjoy the tranquility of the place.

If only he could find a fraction of that tranquility in regards to his _anbaras,_ he’d be very content.

* * *

Garak was as bored as possible for a sentient being. He put on a moderately convincing show to the contrary, proclaiming he now had time to fulfill various long-held aspirations (including to read all twenty-nine volumes of _The Chronicles of Antur District_ , write his own enigma tale, and watch some of the more famous Andorian theater sagas), and most people would’ve bought the act, but Julian knew him well enough to tell how much confinement was getting to him.

The timing of Garak’s newfound interest in medical research was suspicious, to say the least. By the end of his first month in the holding cell, he’d taken to asking about Julian’s work during each visit.

As far as Julian could tell, “Tell me, have you unraveled the mysteries of the Bajoran retina yet?” translated to, “Please stay a few more minutes.”

In fact, the retina research had stalled. Julian had figured out a treatment to halt progression of the decline, but he couldn’t yet cure the condition altogether. Carefully cloned retinas didn’t work, as the weakness carried over to the new ones, which was very unusual. Julian was at something of a loss.

“You’d think it would be female hormones protecting them, but I’ve investigated every method I can think of and nothing adds up.”

“Can you make synthetic retinas?” asked Garak.

“It’s theoretically possible, but not practical for millions of people, considering the limited resources of the Bajoran government.”

“I presume this is beyond the Federation’s largesse.”

“Until Bajor is a Federation world, you’re unfortunately right.”

“The wormhole only gives them so much bargaining power when we all know they couldn’t keep it a day without Starfleet,” said Garak.

“I’m not sure you’re giving them enough credit.”

“Two days, at most.”

“You are depressingly good at realpolitik.”

Garak gave him a look of confusion. “I’m not familiar with the term.”

“Politics, and by extension diplomacy, based on practical considerations, as opposed to ideological or moral persuasions.”

“I’m glad to know there are enough sensible people on Earth to have coined a term for it.”

“Excuse me for thinking we ought to help tens of millions of people see properly,” said Julian.

“It’s a noble goal, but they are not _your_ people. Mind you, I always find it rather confusing with the Federation; is your primary loyalty supposed to be with your own world, your race, or the entire galactic organization? In any case, Bajor is none of those, and even the Federation does not have limitless resources.”

“We have enough, if we wanted to make this a priority.”

“Yes. If.”

There was nothing more Julian could say about that, so he went back. “To answer your question, I took an oath when I joined Starfleet. There’s no question of where my loyalty lies.”

“And if Starfleet demanded you sacrifice Earth to save the rest of the Federation?”

“Have I mentioned lately how sick I am of thinking about sacrifices?”

“Not in so many words.”

“I am extremely tired of them.”

“We Cardassians have seven different words which translate to ‘sacrifice’ in Standard,” said Garak.

“Of course you do.” When something mattered to a society, they broke it down into nuances which outsiders didn’t grasp. “And they probably all look alike from a human perspective.”

“I should hope not. There’s a very clear distinction between giving up one’s life and one’s prosperity or health.”

That much Julian would grant. “I for one refuse to accept that we can sacrifice the vision of millions of people to large-scale indifference.”

“A sacrifice of health is _vorgel_.”

Julian glared.

“I trust you have ample test subjects?” asked Garak, apparently not willing to risk Julian leaving in a huff.

“Entirely too many, though ‘test subjects’ makes it sound as though I’m performing risky experiments with wild abandon.”

“Oh no, you’re far too principled for that. I will rephrase: I trust you have the ability to gather an ample data set?”

“Better,” said Julian, “and yes, I have more than enough data on the problem. It’s the solution end where I’m lacking.” He was missing something, and it was beginning to drive him crazy.

“If discussing the challenge aloud to an uneducated audience is proving helpful in any way, I offer my continuing services.”

“I might just take you up on that,” said Julian. Not as much for his own benefit as for Garak’s, and the slightest tilt of Garak’s head conveyed his gratitude.

* * *

Julian stayed past the end of his shift to check Miles over. Any of the staff could’ve done this, but he knew the problem was psychosomatic, and thus Miles would prefer as few people as possible know about it.

“Your nose is perfectly normal,” he said. “Exactly as it’s always been, no extra cartilage whatsoever.”

“Are you sure?”

He pulled up two images on the nearest screen. “Here’s your reference scan, and the one I just took.” That established, he layered them together. “A perfect match.”

Miles ran a finger down his nose. “If you’re certain.”

“One hundred percent.”

Julian had already been positive he’d restored Miles to his human appearance, without the slightest change stemming from his Klingon masquerade. The double check was for Miles’s benefit.

“Fine then,” said Miles, predictably embarrassed to have imagined the problem. “I’ll see you at Quark’s tomorrow.”

“I hear he’s now carrying a Tellarite mead which is quite good.”

“We’ll find out tomorrow, won’t we?” asked Miles, and then he made his retreat with due haste.

Julian bade Nurse Rohol a good night and headed for the holding cells, where he signed in on Garak’s visitor log. Other than two visits from Ziyal, his was the only name on the list.

“Good evening, Doctor.”

“How’s your enigma tale coming along?” Not that he necessarily believed Garak was writing one.

“It’s a complex business,” said Garak. “I’m still not certain what circumstances would compel someone to sell state secrets to the Ferengi, and while enigma tales don’t require absolute justification the way you seem to think they ought, some small explanation makes the whole reading experience more enjoyable.”

“Does someone have to sell state secrets?”

“It fits into the larger plot.”

“I see.” He dragged a chair over and sat down, since he might be there a while. “A Changeling was impersonating General Martok for who knows how long.”

Garak was unsurprised. “Sensible, from the Dominion’s perspective. They’ve been remarkably effective at using the Klingons to destabilize this side of the quadrant, and it’s only a matter of time before they also agitate tensions between the Federation and the Romulan Empire.”

“They’re turning us against each other.”

“An ancient strategy which continues to stand the test of time,” said Garak. “It’s easy enough when you can take the form of anyone you chose, I imagine.”

“And if we don’t stand together, we’re likely to fall.”

Nobody was entirely sure the precise measure of Dominion military capabilities, but ‘almost certainly stronger than the Federation can take on alone’ was the depressing consensus. Starfleet Medical had already ramped up production of equipment and medicines in preparation for the conflict everyone saw coming.

“Yes,” said Garak. “The Alpha Quadrant powers have disadvantages. We distrust each other – with ample reason, of course, but we are fragmented, weakened from fighting each other, and not inclined to present a united front against the Dominion. They are merely exploiting what is plain to see.”

“Whereas the Dominion’s rule is absolute.”

“Allowing them to press all their strength and resources to a single goal. In this case, the subservience of the entire Alpha Quadrant.”

“Do you think, if the Tal Shiar and Obsidian Order hadn’t attacked -”

Garak didn’t let him finish. “Does it matter?”

Over and above the strange (undeserved, in Julian’s view) loyalty he held for Tain, Garak was probably right. That preemptive strike may have convinced the Dominion they had to fight the Alpha Quadrant, but it was done, and everyone had to deal with the consequences. Or maybe Tain and the Tal Shiar had been right all along, and the Dominion already intended to take the fight to the Alpha Quadrant.

The horror of it all sat in Julian’s stomach like a rock. “It might not be too late to prevent war,” he said, because he desperately wanted to believe peace could still prevail.

“I am afraid that vole has already bred,” said Garak, almost gently. That alone told Julian how much he believed war was inevitable. “Have the Founders struck you as reasonable people who view violence as a last resort?”

“No.”

“And why should they worry about death and destruction? They manufacture their soldiers as we do ships, put their loyal Vorta in charge of the brainless beasts, and sit back in comfort as others die in their name. When you aren’t the one suffering, a war of conquest has a great deal to recommend it.”

Julian still couldn’t condone genocide, but he truly began to see how a few deaths – even his own – might look like a very small price to pay for averting a full war with the Dominion. And Garak, damn him, knew this, because he gave Julian a look which was altogether too piercing.

Suddenly, Julian had an overwhelming desire to reclaim some normality, after all. “I read four different analyses of the fool in Cardassian literature,” he said.

Yes, Garak understood very well how much the prospect of war frightened Julian, but he wisely refrained from making some comment about dealing with the universe as it was, not as one might wish it to be. Instead he said, “There are three main schools of thought on the use of the fool. I hope your reading covered these.”

Julian silently wondered if any of these things would matter, once the Dominion was done with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The more I've thought about it, the more it irks me that Garak's actions in "Broken Link" were never given canonical consequences in terms of his relationships and interactions. I suppose you could interpret the decreased screen time of his friendship with Julian as a consequence, but I want a reckoning of some kind, so that's what I've set out to do here: explore how Julian might possibly come to terms with Garak's plan. 
> 
> Comments make me a very happy writer. =)


	5. Interludes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep meaning to wrap this up and get back to my original fiction, but the muse plunks me right back in this series, which grows longer by the day. I think we're looking at five installments now, so help me. 
> 
> The interludes below take place over several weeks.

Garak’s days passed with interminable slowness, which meant he was rather pathetically grateful to resume his literary debates with Dr. Bashir. He was not entirely clear what made this acceptable again in the doctor’s view, but it had something to do with the coming war, and in any event, Garak was in no position to be anything but pleased for the mental stimulation.

Thought it had to be recognized that the early twenty-second century, as humans measured dates, saw a great deal of very poor books written.

“Your ancestors were evidently conflicted as to whether they should love or hate Vulcans,” he remarked.

“This was before the Vulcan Reformation, when as a race they were considerably haughtier,” said Bashir. “Though I suspect there was a great deal of cultural misunderstanding still at play. Whatever you think of them, Vulcans invested a great deal in humanity.”

“And they have been rewarded by a great power who considers Vulcan their most important ally. In fact, you could view it as a sibling relationship, of a kind.”

“With Vulcans being the staid and responsible older sibling and humans as the irrepressible, energetic younger?”

There was a measure of accuracy to the assessment, though it hadn’t been what Garak meant. “Clearly, humans have very different interactions with their brothers and sisters than Cardassians.”

“I wouldn’t know from personal experience,” said Bashir.

“Nor would I.” Which was just as well, he supposed. Fraternal commitments could only have complicated his life further still and given him another weakness. “However, I was referring to mutual obligations.”

Bashir accepted the personal information with pleasure that, while not hidden, was not so obvious as it had once been. He didn’t question the truth of it, so Garak dispensed with his prepared line about a half-brother he’d never met. Protest too much and Bashir would know he’d been honest, where now he only suspected.

“If your sibling relationships are marked by mutual obligations, I imagine you weren’t impressed with Matheson.”

“I was not impressed with Matheson even before he left his sister to penury,” Garak said.

“That was the point, you know.”

He was well aware. It was a statement on how some people were beyond redemption, or some similar (and for humans, oddly pessimistic) sentiment. That wouldn’t make for an interesting conversation, so instead he observed, “The point was that he is selfish enough to abandon his only living relative?”

“Selfish?” Bashir was predictably aghast. “His sister was a manipulative, abusive addict who brought nothing but destruction and misery into his life. The only way he could be healthy was to stop trying to save her from herself against her own wishes. Nobody owes another person endless chances to ruin their life, not even family. Matheson had to accept that he couldn’t fix her.”

Perhaps, if Garak was uncommonly fortunate, this human attitude meant that Bashir didn’t continue to visit merely because he felt he owed to it his _anbaras_.

* * *

His attempt at a novella could not be considered a success. Garak decided to make the lie a truth and began writing an enigma tale out of sheer boredom. It was either that or the execrable Andorian theater sagas, unfortunately, and he wasn’t yet that desperate.

The enigma tale proved to be as engaging a project as he could expect in his circumstances, and Garak thought perhaps he wouldn’t delete this manuscript upon completion. He was not deluded enough to aspire to publication (who would read an exile’s work?), but as an exercise, it was not without merit. Between it and his conversations with Bashir, he began to think he would still have a firm hold on sanity by the time he was released.

The doctor continued to show more reserve than was his norm, and Garak couldn’t be certain how much of this was in response to his own actions and how much a result of the looming war, which had certainly made an impact on Bashir. Perhaps some part of the doctor’s affections was lost to him forever. Deservedly so, if one thought in purely human terms.

Regardless, Bashir arrived to discuss a classic of the hyperrealist period, and Garak was prepared to enjoy the lively debate.

“Two hundred and fifty-four,” said Bashir before he even sat down. “I had the computer count how many times the word ‘shirt’ appeared in this novel.”

That wasn’t right. “I believe the translation has conflated three different words as ‘shirt.’”

“It’s more than I needed to know about the protagonist getting dressed, regardless.”

“Le’Don must put on clothes every morning. We are not a people inclined to public nudity.”

“She could have gotten dressed in a line or two, or doing so could have been implied. As it is, we got paragraph after paragraph of excruciating detail with no real impact on what passes for a plot.”

“That is the intent of hyperrealism,” said Garak. “To make explicit the myriad small actions which fill the bulk of our waking hours.”

In truth, the genre was not a personal favorite of his. One hyperrealist book was a novelty, and afterwards, they quickly descended into tedium. He’d selected this one because he’d assumed it would irk Bashir and thus provide a very entertaining discussion. On some occasions, Garak chose books of which he was fond; other times he selected those he thought would be conducive to lively debate and assumed the position of an admirer.

“Nothing happens,” retorted Bashir.

“Her house is destroyed.”

“By a rogue meteorite, like a reverse _deus ex machina_. We had sixty thousand words of her daily life, then the sudden meteor, and an epilogue. It didn’t seem like a cohesive story.”

“It wouldn’t be if it was set in modern times,” said Garak, because detecting and destroying meteors was an easy matter, “but in the historical setting, it speaks to the indifference of the universe to our individual lives.”

“I thought it was making a statement on the absurdity of worrying over your wardrobe, because you never know when you’re going to die.”

He sincerely hoped that statement was only uttered to rile him, but with Bashir’s fashion sense (or lack thereof), one couldn’t be certain.

* * *

Garak preferred prose over poetry, most of the time. He made an exception for the collections of Rentor, to whom he had not and would not introduce Bashir, who wrote so eloquently of the state replacing and surpassing an absent father.

Bashir usually chose novels for their reading, sometimes interspersing the odd play (for which Garak never cared, as a play was to be viewed, not read) or ancient saga. This time he’d selected a collection of eight-hundred-year-old poems which, he’d mentioned in passing, came from the ethnic group of his ancestors (but not the region in which he’d been raised, which was how Cardassians identified their subsidiary allegiances; humans made these things so complicated).

“How did you like Imru al-Qais?”

“I found it difficult to relate to his work,” replied Garak. “Cardassia has very little by way of deserts.” And those it did have were generally avoided as unfit for habitation.

In the old days, exiles were sent into the desert, so perhaps Garak could understand more than he was willing to let on.

“I find his language exceptionally evocative,” said Bashir.

For human poetry, Garak supposed it was tolerable, but that wasn’t saying much. “There was a line I found rather Klingon.” He referred to the flag on his padd. “‘If only they had died in combat, not in the lands of Banu Marina!’”

“Wanting to die fighting isn’t an exclusively Klingon idea,” said Bashir. “There are plenty of other human sayings to the effect, such as ‘it’s better to die on your feet than live on your knees.’ Admittedly, Klingons take the whole thing a bit further.”

“As is their wont.” For all their shortcomings, you couldn’t fault Klingons’ dedication.

“This isn’t his most famous poem, though.”

“So the editor mentioned. I found that one rather self-indulgent.”

Bashir gave him a disbelieving look. “Self-indulgent? It’s about a man’s grief.”

“And his magnificent horse,” added Garak, who was quickly bored with such things.

No, what interested him most about the poem was a single line: _I cannot expect that your erring habits will ever be removed from your nature._ It might have been a coincidence, the way the line applied to the doctor’s continued association with him, but of course Garak was not so naïve as to dismiss it as such.

Bashir said, “Horses were very important in that time and place.”

“A poem of this length ought to be about a single topic, or at least related topics. This one moves from one to another as though the poet had very little to say about any of them.”

“That’s ridiculous. He’s mourning his lover through the entire poem.”

The lover had continued to see the narrator, accepting what she perceived to be his flaws. It grew increasingly likely that Bashir was willing to do the same.

* * *

“The big news right now is that Worf finally clued into Jadzia’s interest in him. Not like she gave him much of a choice.”

Garak wondered if Bashir shared station gossip with everyone during their routine medical checks for long-term detainees, but he wasn’t about to question his good fortune. He welcomed any diversion.

“Are condolences in order for you?”

Bashir smiled and shook his head. “That was years ago. I’ll admit I don’t see Worf’s appeal, but Jadzia is my friend, and I’m happy for her.”

He appeared to mean it, interestingly enough, which meant Garak didn’t have to worry that Dax would suddenly see Bashir’s potential as a partner (the doctor having matured over the last years into a very promising one) and thereby depriving Garak of the man’s companionship. Not that Dax would be petty enough to insist they cease their lunches, but Garak was looking forward to resuming his physical encounters with Bashir.

Presuming that was still an option, of course.

“We agree on the mystery of Worf’s appeal,” he said.

Bashir grinned. “Really? You and I on the same page? Maybe I should enter one of Quark’s betting pools and see if I can continue to beat the odds.”

“Beating statistical probability is one thing. Besting Quark’s fixed pools is another entirely.”

“He pays out sometimes.”

“As infrequently as he can get away with it and still keep people paying in.” Not to mention avoid running afoul of Odo. “But it’s your latinum.” Or Federation credits, which Quark accepted with great reluctance and then complained he got a poor exchange rate on.

“We’ll see,” said the doctor in his most noncommittal tone. “Now, I’m leaving tomorrow for the medical conference, where I hope my presentation will be well-received. It’s quite a departure from traditional practices.”

Garak wasn’t looking forward to Bashir’s absence, which promised to be very dull indeed. “Did you solve the mysteries of the Bajoran retina yet?”

“No. I continue to rule out a great many theories.”

“Progress of a kind.”

“Not the kind I’d prefer. Anyway, I look forward to hearing your thoughts on _The Lord of the Rings._ ”

“I will never understand the human predilection for fantastical tales,” he said. “Those are properly for children, not adults.” Gruesome stories for children and whimsical novels for adults. Humans had it all backwards.

Bashir gave him an amused grin. “Just read the books with an open mind. You might like them.”

“I sincerely doubt it.”

“Open mind, Garak. I begin every Cardassian book you give me thinking perhaps it will be the one I finally enjoy.”

How very human. “It’s not my fault you have dreadful taste in literature.”

“Just as it’s not mine that you can’t appreciate a good adventure novel.”

“ _Journey to the Center of the Earth_ was not an adventure. It was a series of absurdities collected without any regard for plausibility.” He realized it was not written in an age of great scientific understanding, but there was the infancy of geological understanding and then there was pure inanity.

“I’ll see you in two and a half weeks.”

They were debating literature again, but Garak suspected Bashir was deliberately selecting the most objectionable examples his culture had ever produced. Even that would have been acceptable if it was done flirtatiously, but this seemed rather more punitive.

“If these books have subterranean monsters, I will not be amused.”

“I decided we should branch out into genre fiction,” said Bashir. “It often has monsters. Happy reading, Garak.”

* * *

There was a subterranean monster.

Garak would admit, if only to himself, that the blandly-titled _The Fellowship of the Ring_ began with some potential as a tale for older children. It featured a man putting away the comfort of his easy existence to carry out his duty, and if that duty was not to a state as such, it was to his people, and thus not without merit.

All of this business with magic rings of power was pure foolishness, of course. Diverting enough for youths, but Bashir had insisted these were not children’s books, and Garak failed to see how any reasonable adult would admit to reading it. Even Cardassian adolescents would eschew such topics as beneath their consideration.

He also found the stark divide between good and evil far too simplistic for adults, if very human. Not all Terrans were prone to this misperception of reality, but many were, and the doctor was one such idealist. For now, at any rate. Garak suspected the coming war would change that, and he hoped the change wasn’t absolute, or Bashir wouldn’t be nearly as entertaining a conversationalist. A bit of realism, on the other hand, might just save the man’s life.

The character of Samwise was respectable, as well, in his devotion to his master (though Garak was certain these books were penned after the abolition of slavery on Earth, so he found the terminology needlessly confusing). Samwise’s station in life precluded him being the hero, but he could nevertheless serve with diligence for the good of the whole, and he never chafed at his limitations, as so many human characters were prone to. As a model for children, he was agreeable.

But this balrog was a problem, and frankly insulting.

By Cardassian custom, offering a series of entertainment options with similarities conveyed a message. The message, of course, varied greatly depending upon the similarities in question and the circumstances of the parties involved (teenagers were known for misreading their peers’ attempts, sometimes quite amusingly), but there was very little room for misinterpreting this. Bashir had presented him a third book with an underground monster, and if Garak needed further proof, three was a significant number to humans.

The obvious conclusion was that the hideous beasts stood as Bashir’s commentary on Garak’s nature.

Admittedly, there was a slim chance the doctor hadn’t intended to make such a statement. Garak had never informed him of this method of communication in so many words. It was a recurring theme in _Reflections on Liro’Ta Pond_ , however, and a rather significant one at that. Even Bashir could not possibly have failed to miss it.

This was an unpleasant turn of events. Making such a dramatic and entirely unjustified accusation and then leaving the station for a medical conference was very rude of the doctor, and Garak was left to stew in the insult without even the meager distraction of a custom clothing order.

He set aside Tolkien and went back to writing his enigma tale.

* * *

Eventually, Garak did finish the entire _Lord of the Rings_ trilogy, in case by chance the balrog was redeemed. It was not.

That done, there was nothing for him to do but wait until Bashir returned to see exactly what the doctor meant by his message. It lacked nuance – the subterranean monsters varied too much – and Garak wasn’t sure if Bashir was expressing further outrage or ending their association altogether.

Dax’s visit came as a surprise. Garak immediately feared the worst, but she didn’t seem unduly distressed, so Bashir’s death was only a remote possibility.

“Julian’s been delayed,” she said. Not dead, then, which filled Garak with a distressing sense of relief. “He diverted to help a hospital on Ajilon Prime.”

“The cease-fire with the Klingons was short-lived,” remarked Garak.

Dax nodded. Her affinity for Klingons was common knowledge, and he wondered if it pained her to see the work of a former lifetime undone as the Federation and Klingon Empire returned to hostility.

“I appreciate the information,” he said.

“Can I ask you something?”

“I am not in a position to stop you.”

She looked at him intently for a moment before posing her question. “If you could have planned out your mission in a way which wouldn’t have killed Julian, would you?”

“No.”

Dax failed to completely hide how much this took her aback. “I see.”

She certainly did not. “The Jem’Hadar would have destroyed the _Defiant_ , so he would not have been safe there. If I’d been fortunate enough to have ample time, I could have contrived a reason to keep him on the station, but then what? Odo required medical attention.”

“Someone else would’ve gone,” she said, and then she understood. Bashir was fond of his staff and would not have wanted to trade any one of their lives for his own, however worthy Garak might deem the bargain. It was the one concession to his _anbaras_ ’s preferences which Garak would have made, and verged dangerously on sentiment.

“If given the choice, he would not have wanted his own life spared at the expense of another’s, not least a member of his staff.”

“No,” said Dax. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but you’re right, he wouldn’t. That’s an interesting way to be considerate.”

It was perfectly sensible, and Garak didn’t know why he’d had to explain it to her. Still, her ignorance suited him, as it meant she didn’t comprehend the full significance of Garak taking Bashir’s feelings into account at all, in this hypothetical scenario. The obvious thing to have done, if he’d had time for such things, was arrange to have Bashir safely on the station where he could continue to make considerable contributions to his society. Taking into account the doctor’s own desires was a sign Garak gave the man too much influence over his own actions.

He probably should have lied and told Dax he would have saved the doctor, but hated to let the Federation think they’d tamed him that much.

In any case, Dax remained unaware of the greater meaning. She indulged him with the tale of a Terran gerbil on the loose (a pet rodent, she explained, and Garak couldn’t imagine why anyone wanted a domesticated rodent), which was not as entertaining as she appeared to think, except in the mental picture of Chief O’Brien chasing it through a maintenance shaft. He appreciated the effort nevertheless.

If Bashir’s monsters hadn’t been an intention to end their association, he thought he could have a pleasantly combative discussion of pet rodents with the doctor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested in the Arabic poem discussed above, you can [read it here.](https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-poem-of-imru-al-qays/) As I learned from researching a suitable bit of Arabic literature for this story, it's considered one of the great pagan Arabic poems.


	6. Rokonterel’pa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The author begs your permission to set aside humility for a moment and celebrate that she has [a book](https://www.evernightpublishing.com/his-to-cherish-by-jessie-pinkham/) which is nominated as Best Sci-Fi in her publisher's [Readers' Choice Awards.](https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/7Y7VWN5)

Julian’s attempt to reclaim normality by discussing literature with Garak backfired before they even got to the books. After finishing _The Return of the King_ in the evening, he had woken up in the middle of the night, pulse racing, from a hellish dream wherein he ran around a battle in Middle Earth notable for having Starfleet officers joining the fight against an army of bat’leth-wielding orcs, and he was trying desperately to save Jadzia and Aragorn at the same time while worrying about Jake’s safety.

Unsurprisingly, he was not well-rested. He wished he’d selected _Waiting for Godot_ instead of something with so many battles.

He almost delayed going to visit Garak, but decided against depriving Garak of the company, and anyway he had nothing else to occupy his mind on his day off. While Dr. Engel wasn’t bold enough to kick him out of the infirmary, Jabara was and he didn’t feel like tangling with his head nurse. Not least because she would be right.

Garak was on edge. Very likely no one else would’ve noticed, but Julian did, and he was glad he’d come to keep the man company for a bit.

“I’m glad to see you’re no worse for charging into the middle of a battle,” remarked Garak.

Julian did not want to talk about Ajilon Prime. “I see Odo is keeping you updated.”

“Commander Dax, actually.”

He was really slipping if he hadn’t noticed her name on the visitor log.

“She did me the courtesy of informing me not to expect you to return as originally scheduled.”

“That was thoughtful of her.”

“And she shared a mildly diverting tale of Ensign Chen’s gerbil wreaking havoc when it escaped its confines, though she did not explain why anyone would want such a creature as a pet.”

“I’ve never understood the appeal myself,” said Julian, who didn’t consider himself a great animal lover in the first place. He found them unstimulating company.

“It’s a peculiarly human sentiment, I suspect.”

“Plenty of other races keep pets, even Vulcans.”

“Yes, of course, but not rodents.”

Julian grinned, because he loved knowing something Garak didn’t. “You haven’t heard of Denobulan water rats?”

“I can’t say that I have.”

“Look them up sometime,” said Julian. “They’re supposed to be quite intelligent, as small mammals go.” He’d had a Denobulan roommate his first year at Starfleet Medical, and she spoke very highly of water rats, though she bemoaned the unfortunate Standard translation.

Garak did not look terribly interested in water rats, which only made it more fun to add, “Anyway, maybe you don’t keep rodents as pets because yours are so ugly.”

“Voles are not the only rodents on Cardassia, Doctor. They are simply the most famous species in the wider galaxy.”

“Are any of them cute and furry?” asked Julian, just to needle him.

“Humans place entirely too much emphasis on animals being ‘cute.’ Surely not all of your Terran animals meet this criterion.”

“No. Have you heard of pet snakes?”

They spent a good ten minutes discussing pets, with Julian taking pleasure in offering the most outrageous examples he could recall. Tarantulas got the strongest reaction from Garak, who proclaimed their keeping one of humanity’s most ridiculous ideas yet. He thought domestic animals ought to be dignified and useful creatures, such as riding hounds.

Eventually they moved from riding hounds to horses and thus found themselves discussing Tolkien as originally intended.

“Surely I can’t be the first person to envision dwarves as a cross between Klingons and Ferengi,” said Garak.

“I can’t say it ever occurred to me, though that could be because dwarves are an established aspect of our culture independent of such associations.”

“I’ll admit this is the first time I’ve ever considered the two races linked, but the comparison is obvious. Could the author have been present for Quark’s trip to Earth in the past?”

“That was a completely different part of Earth. Quark’s misadventure was in America. Tolkien was British.”

“As you are, yes?”

“By birth, yes. I haven’t lived there since I went to the Academy at eighteen, so I prefer to think of myself as a citizen of the Federation.”

The tilt of Garak’s head conveyed his disapproval, but he chose to return to the literature. “I imagine these books were not intended to be read as specist, if they were written when humans believed themselves alone in the universe.”

“Specist?” That was one of Garak’s more absurd takes on a human book. “There are multiple races working together to defeat evil, including sentient trees. How can that possibly be specist?”

“Because it is the beginning of the ascent of man,” replied Garak. “The other races are in various stages of decline by the end of the third installment, but men continue to thrive.”

Only Garak would try to retroactively make Tolkien specist.

“The elvish magic is patently absurd, of course.”

“Oh really?”

“They are supposed to be powerful and good, are they not? And yet they have allowed this caricature of evil…”

“Caricature?” Julian hoped this was flirtation and not Garak’s actual opinion.

“Sauron didn’t benefit from any character development,” said Garak. “We never understand his point of view. Perhaps he’s tragically misunderstood.”

“By all the people he’s trying to kill and enslave?”

“I am not saying it’s certain, only that we cannot eliminate the possibility.”

“Yes, we really can. He’s pure evil.”

“I don’t believe such a thing exists, if only because I don’t believe pure good exists, and the two are always presented as counterbalances.”

“He wanted to enslave the known world!”

“I didn’t say it would be pleasant for the protagonists, or even that I agreed it would be desirable. In fact, the orcs read as dreadful company, so it’s for the best that they were defeated, but I still think Sauron’s characterization lacked nuance.”

“It didn’t need nuance.”

“And this is why your human literature is so simplistic. But we have digressed. These elves, Doctor, were woefully – one could almost say criminally – negligent in allowing the situation to go as far as it did. For beings of supposed power and goodness, it’s an appalling oversight. No wonder they fled Middle-earth in shame at the end.”

Julian didn’t even know where to start.

An hour and a half later, Garak had opined that Frodo was weak and Galadriel weaker; neither Legolas nor Gimli were particularly useful but they were certainly lovers; excepting the main characters, hobbits were servile creatures deserving very little sympathy; Elrond had to be hiding a dark secret of some kind; an army of long-dead souls could only have resulted from Tolkien writing himself into a corner and desperately seeking a means to hand his protagonist victory; and Éowyn would’ve been a much better match for Aragorn than Arwen.

“Does that mean there is a character you actually liked?” asked Julian.

“Gandalf was not entirely disagreeable,” said Garak. “Elves are supposed to be superior, immortal creatures, and Arwen gives up her heritage for a man. She’s little more than an ideal for Aragorn to strive towards, but the price she pays for love is more than ought to be expected of anyone. Surely you have realized that to the Cardassian mind, if he truly loved her, he would never have asked her to marry him and cede her birthrights.”

“That was why they had to wait until he was king.”

“Which is more restraint than I’ve come to expect from human literature. Still, Éowyn was a delightful woman. Aragorn could have had an excellent marriage with her and not ruined Arwen’s immortality. He was extremely selfish, which makes me question his suitability to rule.”

“I’ve never thought of him as selfish,” said Julian. “Arwen loved him enough to become mortal to be with him. That was her choice.”

Garak remained unmoved. “He took her from her people, her family, and her heritage. It’s a heinous thing to do to the person one claims to love. Not very loving at all, I’d say. Perhaps he was enthralled with the idea of winning an elf maiden, especially one so beautiful.”

“More often than not, your interpretations are singularly depressing,” said Julian. He’d have to introduce Garak to some old Russian literature with plenty of angst and death. It didn’t seem like a stretch to picture Garak saying Anna Karenina got her just desserts.

“Only because you insist on unbridled optimism, Doctor.”

Julian wasn’t feeling especially optimistic, actually. Not after his most recent taste of warfare. He shouldn’t have brought his commanding officer’s eighteen-year-old son into a war zone, should’ve risked hauling the generator to the cave alone in the first place (nobody had questioned his strength anyway). He was starting to realize that he could handle war, but he hated it with a passion, loathed the way it irrevocably imprinted on him, and this was only the smallest foretaste of what was to come with the Dominion.

He’d skipped breakfast, so when Garak’s lunch arrived, Julian’s stomach rumbled audibly. “I obviously should eat,” he said, even though he didn’t have much of an appetite.

Garak gave him an assessing look, far more piercing than his usual ‘simple tailor’ routine. “Aren’t you going to mention the balrog?”

“I hadn’t planned on it.”

“You hadn’t?” The slightest widening of Garak’s eyes indicated he was pleased, though Julian couldn’t imagine why.

“Did you think it was noteworthy? I imagine you approved of Gandalf’s sacrifice.”

For once Garak didn’t focus on sacrifice. “Did you even read _Reflections on Liro’Ta Pond_?”

Julian had lost all track of where this conversation was headed. “Yes, of course. I didn’t invent a medical emergency to cover up my failure to read it, if that’s what you’re thinking.” They’d barely sat down to discuss the novel when Julian was called to the infirmary for what turned out to be a nasty ruptured spleen. Then Garak had talked his way on the _Defiant_ and they never had gotten around to _Reflections on Liro’Ta Pond_.

“You read, but you did not understand.”

“What’s this about, Garak?”

“Did you not realize that Manar chose to send his brother plays featuring spineless men who bring about their families’ downfall?”

This was getting more accusatory than Julian felt like accepting. “You know perfectly well I’m not familiar with all the plays mentioned.”

“The quoted lines are obvious.”

“To you, perhaps.” Considering the paucity of information on Cardassian society, if he tried looking up everything in Cardassian books with which he was unfamiliar it’d take him several weeks to finish a single tome, and that was reading at full speed.

“Very well. I will be plain: when a person provides entertainment options with a common theme, it is a form of message-sending. Manar was clearly informing his brother that he was an imbecile about to bring ruin on the entire family.”

That hadn’t been clear at all, although maybe if he’d known the plays referenced in _Reflections on Liro’Ta Pond,_ he’d have understood. He wasn’t sure he wanted to read through four different plays about spineless men. “Cardassians. You never can spell anything out, can you?”

“It is unseemly to be so direct. That is an insult to the intelligence of others.”

The attitude explained much, but Julian was still trying to work out the messages-through-literature business. “Should I take this to mean you think I need to give myself as some kind of offering to the Federation? You’ve given me a great many books on the topic of sacrifice for the state.”

“Primary themes do not count. The message is in the subtler commonalities.”

Of course it was. The Cardassian love of subtleties was unmatched. Garak, having apparently given all the explanation he cared to, watched him expectantly.

Subtler commonalities. Balrog. “Another subterranean monster,” Garak had said.

Oh.

“So you thought I was making a statement by selecting novels with monsters who live underground?” What kind of statement, he wasn’t sure, but it couldn’t have been a good one. Garak wasn’t likely to read an uplifting message into anything.

“It was the obvious conclusion, to the Cardassian mind.”

“Yes, well, my mind is not Cardassian.”

Garak continued to relax fractionally. “Your sudden interest in ‘genre fiction’ was also suspicious.”

“You think everything is suspicious,” pointed out Julian. “I thought I’d see if you liked different kinds of books better, that’s all. And lots of these books feature monsters because it’s a major plot device. What exactly did you think I was trying to tell you?”

“I wasn’t completely certain. The beasts differed enough that it was not, shall we say, the most elegant attempt at _rokonterel’pa_. Messages through entertainment, if you’re looking for a translation, though I think the Standard words lack nuance.”

“You always think Standard lacks nuance.”

“True, but that does have the benefit of making it quite easy to learn.”

He considered everything Garak had said along with his last few book selections. “You thought I was saying you are a monster,” he concluded.

Garak shifted with slight discomfort, probably not thrilled he’d let on that Julian’s opinion mattered even the slightest bit to him. “I would prefer to resume our lunches,” he said lightly, as though he hadn’t just handed over a personal truth.

Julian felt better than he had since he learned what Garak had attempted in the Gamma Quadrant. Garak was who he was, and for him Cardassia would always come first, but nevertheless, he did care about Julian, in his own way. Not enough to refrain from killing him in the pursuit of duty, but that would be expecting the impossible.

He cared enough that he didn’t want Julian to think of him as a monster, or cut all ties, which he'd probably figured was coming next. 

“It’s not easy to move past what you did,” said Julian, “and I haven’t forgiven you, but I have every intention of resuming our lunches.” As well as the sex and the visits to their _malon anbar_. He’d be kidding himself to pretend otherwise. “I got a fresh taste of war on this last mission, and I didn’t like it.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

Jake thought he was cool under fire, and Julian thought that much was true. It didn’t mean he was unaffected by the death and destruction.

He wasn’t entirely sure how it all tied together, though he knew it did. His own mortality hung over his head beside the specter of war; he was more than a diversion and accidental _anbaras_ to Garak; and if the Dominion might kill them all, what was the point of hating Garak for trying to save the quadrant, even if he did hate the method? What good would holding onto his anger do him, here on the front lines of the coming war?

All the people who died on Ajilon Prime – had even one of them taken a last breath thinking of grudges they ought to have held?

“If you’re right about war being unavoidable…”

Garak interrupted to say, “Which I am.”

“… then I’d rather enjoy the positives in my life while I can.”

This earned him a genuine smile. “By happy coincidence, so would I.”

“I think I’ll get lunch, and then, as it’s my day off, I have time to explain to you why you’ve completely misinterpreted the Ents.”

“A defense of a race so inept they lost their own women? I’m not sure how even you can salvage their reputation, Doctor, but I look forward to the attempt nonetheless.”

Julian started planning out his argument as he headed to the Replimat, and the specter of war receded a bit.


	7. Coda

Garak wasn’t inclined to sit in his quarters alone upon his release. He’d had quite enough of his own company, so his priority was to reopen his shop and hope confinement hadn’t utterly destroyed his business. He was updating the displays when Bashir entered.

“Not wasting any time getting back to work, I see,” said the doctor.

“A man has to make a living.” Particularly when paying his rent during his imprisonment had taken almost all of his meagre savings.

“Does that mean you’re too busy for dinner?”

“Anything but Bajoran cuisine,” said Garak, who remained convinced that Odo’s deputies fed him nothing but their own food out of spite.

“I found a replicator pattern for murkasa stew.”

What a delightful surprise. The dish had featured heavily in one of Preloc’s lesser-known works, a tale which the doctor had deemed ‘not as bad as her other books’ the previous week. It was a regional specialty not available on the station since Dukat ordered all replicator patterns purged as part of the withdrawal purely to spite Garak.

“Mind you, I make no promises regarding the authenticity,” added Bashir as they exited to the Promenade.

“How could you? I can alter the program if needed.” It would never taste exactly like Mila’s, of course, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy it.

The Bajoran population was looking at Bashir with gratitude. “I trust the implementation of your cure for malnourished retinas is going well,” remarked Garak.

He didn’t understand the particulars, which involved both how Bajoran males metabolized minerals and atmospheric changes which resulted from widespread mining of the planet in some complex way, but he immediately grasped the magnitude of Bashir’s successful treatment regimen. Millions of Bajoran men owed their vision to Julian Bashir, and the entire race would not soon forget it. Garak expected an award ceremony to be scheduled any day in one of the planet’s more important temples.

“Yes, quite. It’s not a pleasant experience to undergo the retinal infusions, I’m afraid.”

“But it is effective.”

“Only the most severe half percent of cases fail to respond. I’m still trying to adapt the process for them.”

A Cardassian doctor would have been basking in well-earned glory. Even Bashir himself might have been so inclined, early in their acquaintance, where now he was simply satisfied. He was sure of himself and did not need to boast ceaselessly. It suited him.

Garak was more gratified than he would ever express that his _anbaras_ had, if not entirely forgiven him, chosen to accept Garak’s nature and continue their association. This level of investment in another person was unwise, he was certain, but somehow knowledge had failed to produce a cessation.

In any event, it was only a matter of time before the Dominion invaded the quadrant and, presuming he and Bashir survived the initial onslaught, Garak foresaw nothing but travails. He supposed a bit of indulgence ahead of such times was not such a travesty, in the grand scheme of the multiverse.

Four years among the Federation and Bajorans had not softened him to the point of inaction, so enjoying the _malon anbar_ while he still had the option would not sunder him from himself, either.

Yes, war was assuredly in the near future, and the knowledge that he nearly prevented it still bitter, but for now Garak had a charming and invigorating _anbaras_ who’d wasted no time in lowering his barriers once they reached his quarters. Garak allowed the warmth of the _malon anbar_ to overtake them and thought that, if this was the pleasure before the sacrifice, he could not say exile was fully as loathsome (nearly, but not quite) as Tain had intended.

And if he had a preference that he not be required to trade Bashir’s life for the greater good again, well, a man could want many things without it having any bearing on his ability to fulfill his duty. Garak had always been good at ignoring his desires when necessary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus ends the second installment of this originally short 'fun little idea.' I'm trying to balance multiple factors here, not least of which are how Julian can ever accept Garak's attempt in "Broken Link" and Garak's own wariness of sentiment. It can never be easy with these two.


End file.
